The Charlemagne Pursuit (40 page)

“I just gave you physics and mathematics—which, by the way, that seafaring society would have understood. Alexander Thom posited that wooden measuring rods of a megalithic yard length could have been used for surveying purposes, and that they must have been produced from a central place in order to maintain the consistency he observed at the building sites. These people taught their lessons well to willing students.”

She could see that he believed everything he was saying.

“There are a number of numerical coincidences with other measuring systems used throughout history that provide some support to the megalithic yard. When studying the Minoan civilization, the archaeologist J. Walter Graham proposed that the people of Crete used a standard measure, which he termed the Minoan foot. There’s a correlation. Three hundred sixty-six megalithic yards equal exactly one thousand Minoan feet. Another amazing coincidence, wouldn’t you say?

“There’s also a connection between the ancient Egyptian measurement of the royal cubit and the megalithic yard. A circle with a diameter of one-half a royal cubit will have a circumference equal to one megalithic yard. How could such a direct correlation be possible without a common denominator? It’s as if the Minoans and the Egyptians were taught the megalithic yard, then they adapted the unit to their own situations.”

“Why have I never read or heard of any of this?” Davis asked.

“Mainstream scientists can neither confirm nor deny the megalithic yard. They argue that there’s no evidence that pendulums were in common use, or even that the principle of the pendulum was known before Galileo. But there’s that arrogance again. Somehow we are always the first to realize everything. They also say that neolithic peoples had no system of written communication able to record information about orbits and planetary motions. But—”

“The rocks,” she said. “They contained writing.”

Scofield smiled. “Precisely. Ancient writing in an unknown language. Yet until such time as they can be deciphered, or a neolithic measuring rod is actually found, this theory will remain unproven.”

Scofield went silent. She was waiting for that
more.

“I was only allowed to work with the stones,” he said. “Everything was brought to a warehouse at Fort Lee. But there was a refrigerated section of that warehouse. Locked off. Only the admiral went inside. Its contents were already there when I arrived. Dyals told me that if I solved the language problem, then I’d get a look inside.”

“No clue what was in there?” Davis asked.

Scofield shook his head. “The admiral was crazy about secrecy. He always kept those lieutenants up my ass. I was never alone inside the building. But I sensed that the important items were stored in that freezer.”

“Did you get to know Ramsey?” Davis asked.

“Oh, yes. He was Dyals’ favorite. Clearly in charge.”

“Ramsey is behind this,” Davis declared.

Scofield’s gloom and annoyance seemed to mount. “Does he have any idea what I could have written about those stones? They should have been shown to the world. They would confirm all that I’ve researched. A previously unknown culture, seafaring, that existed long before our civilization ever rose, capable of language. It’s revolutionary.”

“Ramsey could not care less,” Davis said. “His only interest is himself.”

She was curious. “How did you know this culture was seafaring?”

“Reliefs on the stones. Long boats, sophisticated sailing crafts, whales, icebergs, seals, penguins, and not the small ones. Tall ones, the size of a man. We now know a species like that once existed in the Antarctic, but they’ve been extinct for tens of thousands of years. Yet I saw carvings of them.”

“So what happened to that lost culture?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Probably the same thing that happens to all of man’s societies. We wipe ourselves out either intentionally or recklessly. Either way, we’re gone.”

Davis faced her. “We need to go to Fort Lee and see if that stuff is still there.”

“It’s all classified,” Scofield said. “You’ll never get near it.”

He was right. But she saw that Davis would not be deterred. “Don’t be so sure.”

“Can I go to sleep now?” Scofield said. “I have to be up in a few hours for our annual hunt. Wild boar and bows and arrows. I take a group from the conference every year out into the woods.”

Davis stood. “Sure. We’ll be out of here in the morning, too.”

She stood.

“Look,” Scofield said, resignation in his voice. “I am sorry about the attitude. I appreciate what you did.”

“You ought to consider not going hunting,” she said.

He shook his head. “I can’t disappoint the participants. They look forward to it each year.”

“It’s your call,” Davis said. “But I think you’re okay. Ramsey would be a fool to come after you again, and he’s anything but that.”

SEVENTY-TWO

Bacchus tells me that they have communicated with many peoples and they respect all forms of language, finding each beautiful in its own way. The language of this gray land is a flowing tongue in an alphabet long ago perfected. On writing they are conflicted. It is necessary, but they warn that writing encourages forgetfulness and discourages memory and they are correct. I wander freely among the people with no fear. Crime is rare and punished by isolation. One day, I was asked to help lay the cornerstone of a wall. Bacchus was pleased with my involvement and urged me to irritate the vessels of the earth, for they distill a strange wine that grows under my hand and covers the whole of heaven. Bacchus says that we should worship this marvel for it provides life. Here the world is broken by mighty winds and voices that cry aloud in a tongue mortal men cannot speak. To the sounds of this primal joy I enter the house of Hathor and offer five jewels upon an altar. The wind sings loudly, so much that all who are there seem entranced and I truly think we are in heaven. Before a statue we kneel and give praise. The sound of a flute haunts the air. Snows are eternal and a strange perfume smokes upward. One night Bacchus broke forth into a monstrous speech that I could not appreciate. I asked to be taught the means of understanding and Bacchus agreed and I willingly embraced the language of heaven. I am glad my king allowed me to come to this wild country of the waning sun. These people rave and howl, they froth out folly. For a time I was afraid of being alone. I dreamed of warm sunsets, bright flowers, and thick vines. But no longer. Here the soul is drunken. Life is full. It slays, and suffices, but never disappoints.

•  •  •  

I have noticed a strange constant. Everything that turns, naturally turns to the left. Lost people move to the left. Snow swirls to the left. The tracks of the animals in the snow bear to the left. The sea creatures swim in left-banked circles. Flocks of birds approach from a leftward direction. The sun in summer moves all day around the horizon, always from right to left. Youth are encouraged to know their natural surroundings. They are taught how to anticipate a storm or the approach danger, they grow to be aware, at peace with themselves, prepared for life. I joined a trek one day. Hiking is favored but a dangerous pursuit. A good sense of direction and agile feet are needed. I noticed that even when our guide consciously turned right, the sum of his several turns was always left so that, without landmarks, which this land totally lacks, it is almost impossible to avoid returning to your starting point from anywhere but left. Man, bird, and sea creature are integrated. This left-turning mechanism seems entirely subconscious to them all. None of those who inhabit this gray land have any realization of the habit and, when I point out the observation, they simply shrug and smile.

•  •  •  

Today Bacchus and I visited Adonai, who had been told of my interest in mathematics and architecture. He is a teacher of skills and showed me measuring rods used to both design and construct. To be consistent is to be accurate, I am told. I tell him how the design of the king’s chapel at Aachen had been greatly influenced by his students and he was pleased. Instead of being fearful, distrusting, or ignorant of the world, Adonai insists we should learn from what nature created. The contours of the land, the location of underground heat, the angle of the sun, and the sea are all factors considered when locating both a city and a building. Adonai’s wisdom is sound and I thank him for the lesson. I am also shown a garden. Many plants are preserved, but many more have perished. Plants are grown indoors in a soil rich with ash, pumice, sand, and minerals. Plants are also grown in water, both from the sea and fresh. Flesh is rarely eaten. I am told it depletes the energy within the body and makes one more susceptible to illness. After eating a diet mainly of plants, with an occasional dish of fish, I have never felt better.

What pleasure to see the sun again. The long winter darkness has ended. The crystal walls come alive with a glitter of colored light. A choir sings a low, sweet, rhythmic chant. The level increases as the sun climbs into a new sky. Trumpets sound the final note and all bow their heads in appreciation of the power of life and strength. The city welcomes the summer season. People play games, attend lectures, visit with one another, and enjoy the Festival of the Year. Each time the central pendulum in the plaza comes to rest, all face the temple and watch as a crystal splashes color across the city. After the long winter, the spectacle is much appreciated. The time of unions arrives and many appear to pledge their love and allegiance. Each accepts a promise bracelet and tells of their pledge to the other. This time brings great joy. To live harmoniously is the goal I am told. But on this occasion three unions required dissolution. Two birthed children and the parents agreed to share responsibility, even though no longer together. The third union refused. Neither wanted the children. So others who had long desired to parent were given the offspring and there was again great joy.

•  •  •  

I stay in a house where four rooms encircle a courtyard. No windows in any of the walls but the rooms are splendidly lit from above by a crystal ceiling and always remain full of warmth and light. Pipes reach across the city and into every house, like roots trailing on the ground, and bring a never-yielding heat. There are but two rules that govern the house. No eating and no sanitation. The rooms cannot be desecrated by eating, I am told. Meals are taken with everyone in the dining halls. Washing, bathing, and all other sanitation is performed in other halls. I inquire about such rules and I am told that all impure matter is instantly sent from the dining and sanitation halls to the fire that never ends, where it is consumed. That is what keeps Tartarus clean and healthy. The two rules are the sacrifices each person makes for the purity of the city.

•  •  •  

This gray land is divided into nine Lots, each with a city that radiates from a central plaza, which seems a gathering spot. An Adviser administers each Lot, selected from the people of the Lot through a vote, in which both men and women participate. Laws are enacted by the nine Advisers and inscribed upon the Righteous Columns in the central plaza of each city so that all will know. Solemn agreements are made consistent with the law. Advisers meet once, during the Festival of the Year, in the central plaza of Tartarus, and choose one of their number to be High Adviser. A single rule governs their law: Treat the land and one another as you would want to be treated. Advisers deliberate for the good of all beneath the symbol of righteousness. Atop is the sun, half ablaze in its glory. Then the earth, a simple circle, and the planets represented by a dot within the circle. The cross reminds them of the land, while the sea waves below. Forgive my crude sketch but this is how it appears.

SEVENTY-THREE

ASHEVILLE

S
TEPHANIE WAS JARRED FROM HER SLEEP BY THE BEDSIDE PHONE
.She glanced at the digital clock. 5:10
AM.
Davis lay on the other queen bed, also fully clothed, sleeping. Neither of them had even bothered to unmake their bed before lying down.

She snatched up the receiver, listened for a moment, then sat up.“Say that again.”

“The man in custody is named Chuck Walters. We’ve verified that through fingerprints. He has a record, mostly petty stuff, nothing that relates here. He lives and works in Atlanta. We checked his alibi. Witnesses place him in Georgia two nights ago. No question. We interviewed them all and it checks out.”

She cleared her head. “Why’d he run?”

“He said a man came charging after him. He’s been sleeping with a married woman the past few months and thought it was her husband. We checked with the woman and she confirmed the affair. When Davis approached him, he freaked and ran. When you shot at him he really freaked and tossed the bowling pin. He didn’t know what was happening. Then Davis beat the crap out of him. He says he’s going to sue.”

“Any chance he’s lying?”

“Not that we can see. This guy is no professional assassin.”

“What was he doing in Asheville?”

“His wife threw him out two days ago, so he decided to come up here. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”

“And, I assume, the wife confirmed all that.”

“That’s what we get paid for.”

She shook her head. Dammit.

“What do you want me to do with him?”

“Let him go. What else?”

She hung up the phone and said, “It’s not him.”

Davis was sitting on the side of his bed. The realization dawned within them both at the same time.

Scofield.

And they rushed for the door.

C
HARLIE
S
MITH HAD BEEN PERCHED IN THE TREE FOR NEARLY AN
hour. Winter engulfed the limbs with aromatic resin, the thick needles ideal cover among a cluster of tall pines. The early-morning air was bitingly cold, an abundance of moisture only magnifying his discomfort. Thankfully, he’d dressed warmly and chosen his spot with care.

The show last night inside Biltmore house had been classic. He’d organized the charade with great style and watched as the woman not only took the bait, but swallowed the line, rod, reel, and the whole damn boat. He’d needed to know if he was walking into a trap, so he’d called Atlanta and found the operative, whom he’d employed before on other jobs. His instructions had been clear.
Watch for a signal and then draw attention to himself.
Smith had noticed the man and woman from the lobby earlier when they’d stepped onto the bus that transported the tour group from the inn to the château. He’d suspected they might be his problem but, once inside the house, he’d come to know for sure. So he’d given the signal and his man had given an Oscar-worthy performance. He’d stood on the far side of the enormous Christmas tree, in the banquet hall, and watched as all hell broke loose.

His orders to the operative had been clear. No weapons. Do nothing except run. Let them catch you, then plead ignorance. He’d made sure that his man possessed a clean alibi for his whereabouts two nights ago, since he knew everything would be double-checked. The fact that his helper was indeed experiencing marital problems and sleeping with a married woman only aided in the alibi and provided the perfect reasons for fleeing.

All in all, the spectacle had played itself out with perfection.

Now
he’d
come to finish the job.

S
TEPHANIE BANGED ON THE DOOR FOR THE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR,
and her summons was finally answered. The front desk had provided them the room number.

“Who the hell are—”

Stephanie flashed her identification. “Federal agents. We need to know where that hunt is located this morning.”

The woman hesitated a second, then said, “It’s on the estate, about twenty minutes from here.”

“A map,” Davis said. “Draw it, please.”

S
MITH WATCHED THE HUNTING PARTY THROUGH A PAIR OF BINOCULARS
he’d purchased yesterday afternoon at a nearby Target. He was glad he’d kept the rifle from Herbert Rowland’s house. It contained four rounds, more than enough. Actually, he’d only need one.

Hunting wild hogs certainly was not for everyone. He knew a little about the sport. Hogs were mean, nasty, and tended to inhabit only densely vegetated areas, off the beaten path. The file on Scofield indicated that he loved hog hunting. When Smith learned yesterday about this jaunt, his mind had quickly formulated the perfect way to eliminate his target.

He looked around. The environment was ideal. Plenty of trees. No houses. Dense woods for miles. Wreaths of mist encircled the forested peaks. Fortunately, Scofield did not bring any dogs—they would have posed a problem. He’d learned from the conference staff that the participants always met at a staging area about three miles from the inn, near the river, and followed a well-marked route. No guns. Only bows and arrows. And they didn’t necessarily come back with a hog. More private time with the professor, talking shop, enjoying a winter’s morning in the woods. So he’d arrived two hours ago, well before dawn, and made his way down the trail, finally deciding on the highest and best location, near the start of the trek, hoping he’d get an opportunity.

If not, he’d improvise.

S
TEPHANIE DROVE AND
D
AVIS NAVIGATED
. T
HEY’D SPED AWAY FROM
the inn, west into the 8,000 acres that made up the Biltmore Estate. The road was a narrow, unlined asphalt lane that eventually crossed the French Broad River and entered thick forest. The conference coordinator had said the hunt’s staging area was not far past the river, and the trail into the woods would be easy to follow.

She caught sight of cars ahead.

Once she’d parked in a clearing they sprang from the car. A pale hint of dawn touched the sky. Her face was chilled by the damp air.

She spotted the trail and ran.

S
MITH CAUGHT SIGHT OF ORANGE AMONG THE WINTER FOLIAGE
, maybe a quarter mile away. He was ensconced on a limb, braced against a pine trunk. A blowing wind swept past under what was slowly developing into an azure December sky, crisp and chilling.

Through field glasses, he watched as Scofield and his party trudged north. He’d gambled as to their ultimate route, hoping they would stay on the trail. Now, with Scofield in sight, that chance had paid off.

He looped the binoculars’ strap across a protruding branch and cradled the rifle, focusing through a long-range scope. He would have preferred to work more unnoticed, using a high-pressure sound suppressor, but he hadn’t brought one of his own and they were illegal to purchase. He gripped the wooden stock and patiently waited for his quarry to draw close.

Just a few more minutes.

S
TEPHANIE RACED AHEAD, PANIC FIRING THROUGH HER IN SHARP
bursts. She kept her eyes trained ahead, searching the woods for movement. Her breath tore at her lungs.

Wouldn’t they all be wearing bright vests?

Was the killer out here?